The Decalogue Rule
by Colours Doyle
Summary: As Holmes consults a very old friend,a new set of mysteries is placed upon the duo's shoulders. One, the suicide of a woman who's known as a former murderer and two,who is this old friend of Sherlock's and why has she got Sherlock in a mess of all sorts?
1. Chapter 1

Hey there guys, this is my first story for a modern Sherlock Holmes universe. A friend told me about a month ago that there was going to be a show called Sherlock on BBC One, and of course I was skeptical because who wouldn't be skeptical about a modernized Sherlock Holmes? Especially someone like me who grew up with the stories. But I watched the first one and I absolutely loved it. I LOVED it! And after watching all three episodes I can't wait to see more. Shame of them to leave it on a cliffhanger! But hopefully more will be in the works soon. :)

After watching the episodes, I began to let my mind play with certain ideas, mostly including Sherlock, of course. I've been reading all the other fanfics featuring an OC and while they are good, they just seem completely unbelievable, some of them. I'm going to try to make mine a tad different, if not in the process of destruction. I hope you enjoy this first bit here. :)

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**December 8, 1998**

**London, England**

"You're into art, are you?" Sherlock asked through humble and meekness, as not to startle the trendy woman. She turned her eyes from the Monet painting to look at him, a smile soon gracing her face and her freckles wrinkled. She had remembered him from their literary analysis class the afternoon before.

"I like to think I am. I'm no expert, but I enjoy looking at it." Her eyes drifted back to the painting, _'Lavacourt Under Snow'_ it was titled, ridiculous piece he thought, but it seemed to intrigue her, "And you?" She asked, turning towards him once more with a healthy posture.

"Not much of an art man myself." He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and peered around at the other paintings.

Her laugh brought his points of vision back to the towheaded young woman. A titillating laugh she had, one that wasn't used to being let into the air.

"Then why are you at an art gallery?"

"I have a proposition for you."

"Oh?" She laughed and adjusted the strap that was digging into her shoulder.

"I know you're looking for a dorm-mate, and as it so happens, so am I." Sherlock stated with a tinge of accomplishment, though he'd hardly accomplished much of anything yet. She nodded with a suspicious look in her eyes.

"And how did you know I was looking for a...dorm-mate?" She asked, quizzically.

"You're obviously American, and are in several of my classes and doing extremely well in fact, yet you're a freshman meaning; you're a bit anti-social and are currently living in a cheap hotel room in Mid-London going by the room key hanging from your key chain." Sherlock smirked a slight smile seeing the suspicion still cast on her face. "My roommate transferred to Oxford last week, so I could either pay the full price on my own for the dorm, or you could move in." He pulled out his phone to quickly answer a text sent from his brother, awaiting her refusal to his proposition.

"I have several books and a lot of clothes, so floor and closet space will be limited with me." Sherlock glanced up at her in surprise but it was then taken over by a smile.

"I play violin and have a wretched smoking habit."

"Sounds fair enough. Oh, and your name? You seemed to have let that important detail out."

He stuck out his gloved hand, "Sherlock Holmes."

"And the dorm number?"

"B7, in Tagsnall Hall." She shook his hand firmly, a small smile extremely similar to his own decorated her lips, "Oh, and your name?" Of course he knew it, but he wanted to hear her say it, so he knew for sure.

"Fallon Jennings. I'll move my things to the dorm tomorrow, so I'll see you then." Sherlock nodded and she turned around down the hall, leaving a happy Sherlock Holmes in the midst of her excitement of finally finding a dorm mate to deal with her excessive materials, and Sherlock's excitement that he didn't have to pay 400 pound a month for a silly dorm room.

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**January 29, 2010**

**London, England**

"And what do you make of this?" Detective Inspector Lestrade asked, his accented gruff tone cut through Sherlock's mind as his eyes land on the body in front of him. A young woman, skin paler than Sherlock's own, with eyes wide open. The word 'MURDERER' was cut into her forehead and the blood had dripped into her face like thin paint. Long, deep cuts ran from her wrists to her elbows; apparent suicide.

The on-going investigation surrounding Sherlock and the body seemed to soften and fade to silence, a skill he'd learned to pick up when in an open area where peace and quiet was difficult to reach. He bent down and inspected the body.

Single woman, no children, never been married, simple enough a child could infer these traits. But this wasn't just a plain woman.

"Did you find anything on her?" He asked, turning to Lestrade quickly.

He locates the bag in which a small wallet lay inclosed, "A few week old taxi receipts in her wallet—"

"Let me see it." He rips open the plastic bag and searches through it, no ID. "She's a student at the University."

"How do you know?"

"She lives in the centre of the city, only takes ten minutes to get to the University from the centre of the city. Different fares for different times of the day but all to the same place." Sherlock tosses the wallet back to Lestrade as Sgt. Sally Donovan rushes in.

"The reports are just in, this is our girl, Rebecca Windstead." Sherlock narrows his eyes at Sally then directs his attention to the body. Rebecca Windstead...missing person, suspected of murdering some poor old chap two months back.

"This wasn't suicide..." the detective spoke, if not only to himself, as he bent down once more next to the body, "Who would murder a murderer and make it look like a suicide?" Sherlock's head shot up to the soft patter of John's shoes as he entered the warehouse. As he began to turn, a blotch of black ink on the woman's left hand caught his attention and made him glance around suspiciously.

"What? What is it?" Lestrade asked unaware of the thoughts roaming wildly through that insufferable man's head.

"John, you still have the taxi waiting?" Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and began searching through maps.

"Yeah—"

"Excellent. Lestrade we will return momentarily, in the meantime, search every area reachable at arms length from the floor, I'm sure you'll find something very useful."

"Wait—where are you going? Sherlock?" Lestrade called after them but they'd already crossed the doorway and were outside headed towards the taxi.

"Told you, always leavin'-waste of our time." Sgt. Donovan remarked airily at Lestrade's frustration before returning back to her given job.

. . .

"Fifty Church Street." Sherlock told the cabby and they soon started off down the street.

"Fif—Church Street? Why on earth are we going to the other side of London for?" John complained as his humble, silent flatmate typed away on his phone, not even taking the time to answer. Twenty quiet minutes past and the cabby slowed at the curb of a private lot, hesitant on whether to drive down the short road.

"This will do." Sherlock pulled the handle and stepped out into the shrill air, glancing at John. "You coming? I might be a while." And John stutters as he stumbles out and looks up at the house they approached. A very large home on a decent chunk of lush land. Red brick and nearly three stories, the area was well kept. Must be some high end official, John thought as they stepped up to the front door.

"Who are we here to see, exactly?" John asked, standing nimbly next to Sherlock as he rang the doorbell.

"A—very old friend." He pressed the button impatiently.

"Ah. So by 'friend' you mean...uh, enemy."

Sherlock turned to him, eyes never more serious, "No. By 'friend' I mean...friend." Again, he presses the button relentlessly.

"But I thought you didn't have—" A woman's heavy voice greeted them and the door was yanked open.

"Jesus Christ hold o—oh Sherlock 'olmes!" An old woman dressed in dark garments pulled Sherlock in for a bone crushing hug.

"Misses Franklin." Sherlock greeted her with the little breath he could muster.

"My dear child, I haven't seen you since that court date six years ago, where you been?" She said as she released him.

"Oh, out and about. Is she in, by any chance?"

"Oh, you know her, always down in her library. You remember the way?" He nods.

"Yes I believe so, thank you. Come on John." And as John follows the man into the house, John notices Sherlock walked with such natural ease, as if he were walking through his own home. They strutted down several halls filled with antique furniture and beautiful paintings, hardly a modern thing about this house. Yet the mystery as to where they were was still very adamant.

"Sherlock—"

"Shh, she might hear you." He said quickly and stopped at a set of doors to the right. He opened one slowly and stepped in. John followed him and was met by a very large lighted room, walls lined with shelves of books and books and books. There was a faint aroma of cigarette smoke, despite the size of the room, that made Sherlock groan slightly. An upper level held even more books that overlooked the ground level he and his flatmate stood.

There was a sudden clank of footsteps descending down a spiral staircase from the top level and two feet landed on the hardwood floor. A woman.

Now, since living with Sherlock, John had a small growing habit of observing every and any person he sees. This woman, most likely the same age as Sherlock and stood at average height with books stacked in her arms to her shoulders. Flicks of short, blond locks could be spotted as she paused. Her eyes landed on the two men and let out a long exasperated grunt as she set the books down on a dark oak wood desk.

"You've added on." Sherlock said, looking around casually at the home library. The clothes she wore were very stylish and clung to her skinny form in layers, ratty tennis shoes acquainted her feet as she walked up to Sherlock, she nearly reached his nose in height.

"You've grown your hair out." She spoke with an American accent as she passed Sherlock and took a few stray books from a shelf behind him, "And I like the suit, plain tones always suited you better, they match your eyes." She looked up at him and smiled slightly as Sherlock held a gaze between the them before he realized that John was still in the room.

"Yes well, this is John Watson, a colleague of sorts. I share a flat with him on Baker Street. John, this is Fallon Jennings, an old friend of mine." As Sherlock introduced the two, John couldn't help but notice a sense of nervousness about his tone, yet a dash of happiness as he looked upon the woman he now knew as Fallon. They obviously had some sort of thick past, but John thought better than to pry as he stuck his hand out to her.

"Pleasure to meet you."

Fallon laughed, "Likewise," she started, she was a very pretty woman, in John's opinion. She held a natural beauty, something that was very rare nowadays, especially in an American woman. She bore two big, dark blue maroon eyes, defiant and bold jaw bones. "Has he flaunted for you his lovely violin talents yet?"

"No, should I anticipate such?" Fallon only giggles lightly at his question and turns her attention to the man who has come to see her.

"Not that it isn't...great to see you, but why are you here, Sherlock?"

"I'm afraid I'm in need of some professional opinion, crime scene down town; woman supposedly committed suicide, but I'll spare the details for later, care to take a look?" Sherlock spoke with a different air when he spoke to her, like he wold forget what his next words would be if he wasn't too careful.

"It is very interesting." John commented, Fallon thought for a moment.

And when she looked like she was about to decline, she accepted, "only if I can grab a bite to eat on the way, I'm starving."

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**Well? Let me know if you like it! I wasn't planning on posting this early but I was just too excited to see if anyone enjoyed it. So, you probably know the routine, alert if you want to read more, and also review! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry it took so long guys, junior year is kicking my ass. I thought I would've had more free time to write or I wouldn't have posted the first chapter. But I've managed to pull a second one together, I hope you enjoy! It's a very short one but it's full of juice and the beginning of the story.**

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On the way back to the crime scene John learned that Fallon was a thirty-two year old professor of Cohesive English, Classic Philosophy, and Creative Writing & Literature at the University and on her way to becoming a well known scholar. She lived alone in her home, formally her late grandfather's, aside from the few house-keep that inhabited various rooms around the house. Sherlock and Fallon had met artlessly at the university, shared a coed dorm together when John didn't quite think they allowed coed dorms or so they had made it coed either way. The suspicion that Sherlock and Fallon had left out a piece of their past was still very apparent but before John had the time to ask they had arrived back at the warehouse.

He followed behind the two into the warehouse slowly. And he noticed, as they both walked, that they seemed to either drift closer to each other or drift two arm lengths away from each other, how...odd.

"She can't bring that in here." Anderson spoke to Sherlock as Fallon gallantly walked past him through the door way of the warehouse which lay home to the dead body to Rebecca Windstead.

"Hey who's this?" Lestrade gestured towards the blond woman who began to examine and observe the body whilst munching on her cheap Chinese.

"A friend." Sherlock said walking over to her as Lestrade rolled his tired eyes, his career as Detective Inspector flashing before them.

"Can I talk to you for a quick second, Sherlock? Over there?" Fallon jabs her thumb to an area deserted by the on-going investigation. Sherlock's face offers a questioning but complying countenance at he follows her. And John could not help but be curious.

"What is it?"

"Why did you bring me here? This is just a silly little crime scene, granted an extremely intriguing one but I don't think you brought me here for my interest." Fallon inputs and glances around with little enthusiasm.

"Didn't you continue your Latin studies in Grad School?" Sherlock's eyes stayed on hers as she narrows them.

"Yes, for about a year. Why?"

There was a sudden manic and arousing fumbling of voices and footsteps of Lestrade who rushed toward the secretive two, a small smile lay on his face.

"We found the note."

Sherlock smiles, looking down at Fallon who equally looks up at him with an unreadable expression, even to him.

"Let me see it." Fallon lifts her hand to Lestrade, and the note is placed in her hand. As Fallon grips the note disclosed in plastic wrapping her eye catches Lestrade's and she smiles a sly smile. "Thank you." Her smile shifts to a smirk as he nods. Sherlock rolls his eyes and brings the note into Fallon's like of vision, irritably. She laughs and takes a lazy look at it. Taking a closer look, she shoves the box of Chinese into Lestrade's hands and looks closer. And then she looks back at the victim sprawled out on the concrete.

"This is one of my students. Or, was. I recognize her writing and use of cohesive devices, or lack there of." Upon the ripping of the bag open, John winces, she is contaminating evidence with her greasy fingers, and she looks closely as if she's forgotten her glasses, "Well, this wasn't written by her." She tosses the paper on the tabletop next to her.

"I thought you just said it was?" Lestrade sets her food on the observation table and steps forward.

"Indirectly. She wrote, but someone else was telling her to write it—" but with sudden haste; "how did you know it would be in Latin, Sherlock?"

"Imprint on her hand," he points, they all looked aside from Fallon, "backwards reads, 'alui' form of the word 'cherish'."

And yes, if looked upon closely John could see an imprint of that word very clearly.

"You can read Latin just fine Sherlock." Fallon persists.

Sherlock cocks his head, eyes filled to the rim with sarcasm, "Yes but you're the expert Fallon."

Lestrade clear his throat, "Sherlock, I'm going to need everything you have."

Ripping his eyes from the persistent being he begins, "Rebecca Winstead, graduate student on her third year at the university. Committed a murder three months prior to this week, abducted in the early morning going by her clothing and lack of footwear, brought straight here and kept for no more that three days where she was given a series snake venom poisons. Most likely a black mamba that killed her given her awkward and stringent position more than likely caused by a sudden paralysis, of course other venoms were tested, needle punctures, old and new on each arm."

"But how do you know it's snake venom and not just some drug?" Lestrade questions and Sherlock seems to hold back the urge to roll his eyes, and most likely biting back an obnoxious comment. Fallon laughs slightly and picks at her food, now almost completely emptied into her stomach.

"There are various cups all around this place with latex gloves spread over the top, please tell me you made the connections." Fallon says as she lifts the note again and reads through it, silently.

"We know why, so all that's left is to find out who did this." Lestrade nods and Sherlock adjusts his scarf. "Fallon, what do you say we take this evening to figure this cryptic mishap out?" She nods and Sherlock waits for Fallon to walk up to his side and they both exit, with the ever silent John in tow.

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**December 20, 1998**

**London, England**

After she had settled into his dorm room, Sherlock was able to observe Fallon at a much closer level than he would have particularly liked to but he didn't complain, she was interesting. Yet he was still slightly apprehensive about sharing a flat with a woman he couldn't figure out in the few weeks he'd known of her. She was complex, but not so outrageously complex that it took several weeks of analyzing to understand her quirks and simple character details. Like for example; what she was majoring in, what state she'd come from, or why exactly she took so many pills. And the answers were simple to deduce; Fallon majored in Literature and Creative Writing, she was originally from Ohio but moved to live with her father in New York given her accent and her fondness and natural trust in men, and one of the most interesting things Sherlock found about Fallon was why she took so many little gray and white pills. It'd taken him a few days but he'd finally broken down her schizophrenic true self.

Sherlock had skipped class one day and retreated back to his room while Fallon had gone off to her Literature Lesson. He quickly pulled the nightstand drawer open and checked each label and the connections were made in his head almost immediately.

"Chlorpromazine." _Anti-psychotic._

"Parnate...tranylcyromine." _Anti-depressant._

"Xanax." _Anti-anxiety. _

_Conclusion: heavily medicated schizophrenic. _

And he sat on her bed, looking at the three little bottle that sat upon Fallon's nightstand for the next hour until she had walked through the door, rushing like her usual self to start reading on her new assignment. She didn't seem to care much less notice that Sherlock was sitting on her bed with her secret right in front of his eyes and this irked him to no end.

"You've been on these for over two years," he states, trying to get a rise out of her. "It is interesting,I never would have pegged you for the deranged schizophrenic type."

Without a glance up from her notebook, Fallon retorts back, "At least _I _medicate myself," indicating that she had deduced on her own of Sherlock's undiagnosed sociopath disorder.

He smiles with a slight sneer at the back of her head, and began on his own homework. Quite possibly, this wasn't a bad decision after all.


End file.
